They're Calling It a Cure
by Tique
Summary: Another interpretation of what could have happened between Mystique and Magneto in X3. Contains spoilers.
1. Chapter 1

SPOILER ALERT! THIS FIC CONTAINS MAJOR SPOILERS FOR X3, SO IF YOU HAVEN'T SEEN IT, DON'T READ YET!

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Okay, so I didn't like what they did to Mystique in X3. More specifically, I didn't like what Magneto did to her. Not only was it out of character for him, it was bizarre. His feelings for her turned on a dime just because she wasn't a mutant anymore, and I find that very unrealistic. /End short rant! Hopefully it doesn't suck too horribly. I just felt like I had to write something. Oh, and one more thing--I actually like Pyro, and I'm not sure why he came out looking like such a dork in this story (so far.) Anyway, I hope you enjoy this.

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When she crumpled on the floor of the truck, she felt it. Her mutation was leaving her. Her skin seemed to shrink a little, to grow tight and inelastic, and her body felt solid and heavy. She couldn't feel her bones or her organs or her muscles, couldn't perceive them on the edge of her consciousness the way she'd done so naturally, so effortlessly, for so many years. She tried to morph, tried because she thought perhaps she was wrong and she'd imagined it all, but nothing happened, and suddenly she was naked and cold and pink, and more frightened than she'd ever been in her life.

"…Erik…!"

She was vaguely aware of the way the other men were staring at her, and it made her angry—no, not because she was suddenly, startingly naked, but because she was a human, and how dare they stare at her when she was so exposed?

"I'm still one of you," she snarled. "I'm not some kind of freak." And her voice had lost its lovely timbre, the slight and melodic vibration of other voices within her own. She was still curled on the floor, challenging them with her eyes—oh, her eyes, what did they look like _now?_—when Magneto neatly removed his cape and draped it over her body.

"You're too naked, my dear," he said, and his eyes were more sorrowful than she'd ever seen them, perhaps even moreso than when she'd caught him alone, remembering his parents and his childhood. He helped her up and she stood, shaking, his cape draped over her shoulders and concealing nothing. She'd forgotten what it meant to be nude. It was only after she saw the Juggernaut's eyes again resting shamelessly on her chest, a leer spreading across his face, that she thought to wrap the cloak around her body, haphazardly, like a bath towel, repeating Erik's words in her head.

"Erik," she whispered again, and a lump rose in her throat. "Erik, I'm so sorry."

"Sorry for what?" he said. His voice was flat and he did not look at her face as they exited the truck, flanked by the Juggernaut and Multiple Man. Pyro trotted along behind them like an ingratiating young puppy. "There is nothing to be sorry for. We'll…make the necessary repairs."

"Okay," she responded, and god, her voice was so small. She cleared her throat and tried again. "Okay, yes."

Better.

"The first thing to do is find you a proper set of clothes. You will still fight by my side, my dear. You are still Mystique."

"I am still Mystique," she said, half to herself.

"And soon you shall be once again be… _our_ Mystique."

"Yes," she said, "…thank you," and her hand twitched as she went to stroke his arm in gratitude but thought better of it. Perhaps he wouldn't want to touch her anymore.

"For what?" She glanced over at him and saw the slightest smile curling his lips. "Did you think I'd just _leave_ you there?"

Behind them, the Juggernaut and Multiple Man exchanged curious glances.

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Mystique was used to living as a beautiful woman. Hell, she was used to living as a hundred beautiful women, and she of all people knew the power that physical beauty could yield to the person who knew how to use it.

And she knew how to use it.

What she didn't like was this new inability to turn it off. But she was useful, still, to the Brotherhood, and when they'd all returned to the island she'd outfitted herself in a wooly sweater and a long, stiff, utilitarian skirt she'd had stashed away in her closet. A mutant who could replicate any piece of clothing in the near blink of an eye had little use for an extensive wardrobe, but it did get cold on the island sometimes, so she had a few things.

Without her scales, her skin felt soft and too tender, almost like the shallow, open wound of a skinned knee, and the sweater scratched her nipples. The skirt made her legs itch and made slight red rashes appear on her thighs. Magneto gave her a set of his cotton pajamas and they were much more comfortable, even if she felt a little absurd wearing them.

Mystique hated her new skin.

A few days passed, and during that time Mystique left her room only when she had to, and generally at night. When she wasn't alone, she wore Magneto's pajamas. When she was, she went naked. It felt better, but she still couldn't stand to look at herself. There was a full-length mirror in the corner of her bedroom, so she turned it to the wall.

She went into town alone one day—at least no one would recognize her in this form (and oh, how she tried to tell herself it was nothing but a form)—since Magneto couldn't come with her. He was a wanted fugitive, after all. He'd suggested rather half-heartedly that she wear the pajamas he'd given her, but she'd refused and left in the scratchy sweater and the itchy skirt, shuffling along in bedroom slippers, to stop in the first store she came to so that she might buy something that didn't hurt so damned much.

_How do they handle wearing clothing all the time?_

She purchased a satiny, butter-colored blouse that made her human form appear just a little sickly, but would look lovely when she was blue and red and yellow again, and two pairs of loose-fitting pants that she felt would accommodate her scales if she ever felt the need to wear them. She picked up a pair of inexpensive, minimalist heels on her way to the counter—no way would she ever wear shoes again once she had returned to her true form. These were a one-time thing.

The young salesgirl smiled as she rang her up, glanced briefly at the thick sweater and then twice at the bedroom slippers.

"Lost my luggage," said Mystique.

"That's awful," said the girl, folding the pairs of pants. "I hope you find it again." She picked up the blouse and shook it out. "This isn't really your color."

Mystique smiled a little. "Oh, it will be."


	2. Chapter 2

Note: Reviewer crystalwish pointed out that I am a dork (not her words) and messed up the timeline. Yes, Mystique was cured AFTER the church meeting, so I've dropped that. I've changed a few things here so it doesn't seem totally incongruous, but it still needs some work...and I do intend to correct it soon to accommodate, for example, the Phoenix, who would be with Magneto at this point. She's too major to just write into the story in a few minutes, though, and that's all I have. I WILL fix it. Sorry!

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When she got home she removed the sweater and the skirt and threw them in the back of her closet. The new clothes she stuffed under her bed and then she exited her room gloriously naked. Magneto smiled a little when he saw her. She noticed that he was able to stand looking at her for longer now, though his eyes were still just as sad.

"You've tired of clothing, I see."

She sat down beside him on the couch, rested her head on his shoulder. "I don't understand how you can tolerate it."

He put down the newspaper he'd been reading and touched the pale skin of her thighs lightly, avoiding the red parts. "And I see why you can't."

She raised her head and looked at him suddenly. "Anything new?"

"No." He shook his head and tapped the newspaper. "Not here. I've been watching the television but they haven't said anything we didn't know already. Mutant child is the cure, we're approaching a new era in scientific discovery, etcetera." He paused. "They've started distributing it, though."

"Oh," she said. "I didn't know that."

"Hey Misty, you've come out of hiding." Pyro appeared suddenly from behind them, flicking his lighter. "Whoa, and you're _naked_ again."

"How observant of you." She didn't turn to look at him.

He was grinning and winking at Magneto, who ignored him. "Ni-i-ce."

Now she turned, but only halfway, and Pyro found her new profile totally hot. Like, even hotter than she'd been before. Mystique sighed. "How old are you turning next week? Is it thirteen? I've forgotten."

"Twenty-one, Misty. Twenty-one. Now you guys gotta let me drink wine with you and stuff."

"We already do let you drink wine, Pyro." Magneto was reasonably generous with his alcohol supply, but he wasn't about to waste his collection of fine wines on someone who was planning to puke them up at the end of the night . "If you're planning to become anything other than pleasantly tipsy, you can drink beer."

"Which you can pay for yourself," added Mystique.

"Geez, touchy. What's on TV?" He reached for the remote and turned it on.

On the screen, a throng of people surrounded a building. Some were standing in quiet lines against the brick walls. Others were waving signs and banners, chanting. Mystique couldn't quite make out what they were saying.

"Who are they? The ones lined up."

Magneto sighed, switched the television off. "Not everyone is as eager as you and I to retain his or her identity. They're homo sapiens-to-be. Traitors to our cause."

"Traitors." Pyro spat the word.

"And the others?" Mystique asked. "Mutants like…?" She paused, trailed off, and Magneto found himself unable to read the expression on her face.

"Like us?" he finished. "More like us than the first group, yes." He cleared his throat. "We're meeting the others tomorrow."

She stared at him silently, waiting. Human Mystique, he'd noticed, was no more verbose than mutant Mystique.

"I think you'll be impressed," he continued. "I've collected quite an army. We'll take the jet and we'll organize."

Beside him, Mystique was still quiet. It seemed to be a different sort of silence, though, and he felt as if he knew precisely what she was thinking.

"It will be quite all right, my dear. You are still one of us. And I won't let anybody say differently." His words were firm and confident but Mystique had spent years reading voices like braille under her fingertips and so she heard it when no one else would have, the barest trembles of uncertainty in Erik's throat. It did not make her feel good.

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Pulling the new clothing she'd bought out from under the bed, she tried to muster up the enthusiasm she vaguely remembered was supposed to accompany a new outfit. How long had it been before she'd cared for any clothes other than the ones she'd made out of her own skin? Thirty years? Thirty-five? She slipped the yellow blouse over her head and sat on the bed to put her new pants on, then went to the mirror, pulled it away from the wall.

It never ceased to surprise her, the pale face that stared back at her whenever she saw her reflection. She'd been trying her hardest to avoid doing so—a day or two ago, she'd glimpsed a flash of pink in the silvery surface of the toaster in the kitchen, and that had been far, far too much. It had always been blue, and so lovely.

The blouse really wasn't her color. That is, it wasn't Raven's color—it made her look sallow and washed-out. Raven would have looked nice in lavender, but Mystique would have looked…ridiculous. No, yellow was Mystique's color

_and it will be once again, very, very soon._

and for a brief and wonderful moment she imagined that she could change the shirt just as she would have before. But nothing happened.

She stepped into her new shoes and nearly fell over. She hadn't expected that; she hadn't realized that walking on the heels you've made out of your own feet is much, much easier than attempting to balance in real shoes. The heels were only an inch or two high but they were too high for her, and when Magneto knocked on her door later that day, she was busy sawing them off with a penknife.

He raised an eyebrow. "Perhaps I can help."

She glanced up at him, smiled weakly, and then continued sawing. "Perhaps."

He sat down beside her on the bed and took the shoes in his hands. "Are you almost ready to leave?" The knife was hovering in the air neatly, suddenly razor sharp.

"Almost. After this."

"May I ask why you're trying to cut the heels off of your new shoes?" He let the blade drop, once, and the heel of the first shoe tumbled to the floor.

She sighed. "I can't walk in them. It's been too long."

"I see." He had the second shoe in his lap now.

"You don't understand."

He smiled, let the blade drop a second time, and handed her the neatly trimmed shoes. "Try them on now. And I think I understand more than you know. I've never had to wear heels either."

"Don't patronize me, Erik," she said. She put the shoes on, strode tenatively around the room. "It isn't the heels. I can walk in heels. I just can't walk in shoes."

"I can certainly agree with your decision to wear clothing to this meeting," said Magneto. "But I shouldn't think anybody would criticize you for your lack of footwear."

"I suppose I hadn't thought of that."

He watched as she continued to test them. "You look as if the shorter heels are helping."

"They are." She still felt shaky, but at least she wasn't limping anymore. At least she wasn't in danger of tripping and falling in front of this new crowd of mutants. "Thank you."

"Not at all. When you're ready, meet us out front." He waved his hand nonchalantly as he left the room. "No need to hurry. _They're_ waiting for _us_."


End file.
